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Poem by Mary Robinson

Lines to Him Who Will Understand Them

THOU art no more my bosoms FRIEND; 
Here must the sweet delusion end, 
That charmd my senses many a year, 
Thro smiling summers, winters drear. 
O, FRIENDSHIP! am I doomd to find 
Thou art a phantom of the mind? 
A glittring shade, an empty name, 
An air-born visions vaprish flame? 
And yet, the dear DECEIT so long 
Has wakd to joy my matin song, 
Has bid my tears forget to flow, 
Chasd evry pain, soothed evry woe; 
That TRUTH, unwelcome to my ear, 
Swells the deep sigh, recalls the tear, 
Gives to the sense the keenest smart, 
Checks the warm pulses of the Heart, 
Darkens my FATE and steals away 
Each gleam of joy thro lifes sad day. 

BRITAIN, FAREWELL! I quit thy shore, 
My native Country charms no more; 
No guide to mark the toilsome road; 
No destind clime; no fixd abode; 
Alone and sad, ordaind to trace 
The vast expanse of endless space; 
To view, upon the mountains height, 
Thro varied shades of glimmring light, 
The distant landscape fade away 
In the last gleam of parting day: 
Or, on the quivring lucid stream, 
To watch the pale moons silvry beam; 
Or when, in sad and plaintive strains 
The mournful PHILOMEL complains, 
In dulcet notes bewails her fate, 
And murmurs for her absent mate; 
Inspird by SYMPATHY divine, 
Ill weep her woesFOR THEY ARE MINE. 
Driven by my FATE, whereer I go 
Oer burning plains, oer hills of snow, 
Or on the bosom of the wave, 
The howling tempest doomd to brave, 
Whereer my lonely course I bend, 
Thy image shall my steps attend; 
Each object I am doomd to see, 
Shall bid remembrance PICTURE THEE. 

Yes; I shall view thee in each FLOWR, 
That changes with the transient hour: 
Thy wandring Fancy I shall find 
Borne on the wings of every WIND: 
Thy wild impetuous passions trace 
Oer the white waves tempestuous space: 
In every changing season prove 
An emblem of thy wavring LOVE. 

Torn from my country, friends, and you, 
The World lies open to my view; 
New objects shall my mind engage; 
I will explore th HISTORIC page; 
Sweet POETRY shall soothe my soul; 
PHILOSOPHY each pang controul: 
The MUSE Ill seek, her lambent fire 
My souls quick senses shall inspire; 
With finer nerves my heart shall beat, 
Touchd by Heavens own PROMETHEAN heat; 
ITALIAS gales shall bear my song 
In soft-linkd notes her woods among; 
Upon the blue hills misty side, 
Thro trackless desarts waste and wide, 
Oer craggy rocks, whose torrents flow 
Upon the silver sands below. 
Sweet Land of MELODY ! tis thine 
The softest passions to refine; 
Thy myrtle groves, thy melting strains, 
Shall harmonize and soothe my pains, 
Nor will I cast one thought behind, 
On foes relentless, FRIENDS unkind; 
I feel, I feel their poisond dart 
Pierce the life-nerve within my heart; 
Tis mingled with the vital heat, 
That bids my throbbing pulses beat; 
Soon shall that vital heat be oer, 
Those throbbing pulses beat no more! 

No, I will breathe the spicy gale; 
Plunge the clear stream, new health exhale; 
Oer my pale cheek diffuse the rose, 
And drink OBLIVION to my woes.

Mary Robinson

Mary Robinson's other poems:
  1. Sonnet 24. O Thou! Meek Orb
  2. Stanzas Written under an Oak in Windsor Forest
  3. The Widows Home
  4. To Cesario
  5. Sonnet 44. Here Droops the Muse

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